Classic Poem

G IL Morrice was an Earl's son,
His name it waxèd wide;
It was nae for his great riches,
Nor yet his meikle pride.

His face was fair, lang was his hair,
In the wild woods he stay'd,
But his fame was by a fair lady,
That lived on Carron side.

“Whare sall I get a bonny boy
That will win hose and shoon,
That will go to Lord Barnard's ha',
And bid his lady come.

“It's ye maun rin this errand, Willie,
And ye may rin wi' pride,
When other boys gae on their feet,
On horseback ye sall ride.”

“O no! O no! my master dear,
I dare not for my life,
I'll no gae to the bauld Baron's
For to tryste forth his wife.”

“My bird Willie, my boy Willie,
My dear Willie,” he said,
“How can you strive against the stream?
For I sall be obeyed.”

“But Oh! my master dear,” he cried,
“In green wood ye're your lane,
Gie o'er sic thochts I would ye redd,
For fear ye should be ta'en.”

“Haste, haste, I say, gae to the ha',
And bid her come wi' speed;
If ye refuse my high command,
I'll gar your body bleed.

“Gae bid her take this gay mantle,
'Tis a' gowd but the hem;
Bid her come to the good green wood,
And bring nane but her lane.

“And there it is, a silken sark,
Her ain hand sewed the sleeve,
And bid her come to Gil Morrice,
Speir nae bauld Baron's leave.”

“Yes, I will gae your black errand,
Though it be to your cost,
Sin' ye by me will not be warned,
In it ye shall find frost.

“The Baron he's a man of might,
He ne'er could bide a taunt,
And ye sall see before it's night,
How sma' ye ha'e to vaunt.

“And sin' I maun your errand rin,
Sair, sair against my will,
I'se make a vow, and keep it true,
It sall be done for ill.”

And when he came to broken brig,
He bent his bow and swam,
And when he came to grass growing,
Set down his feet and ran.

And when he came to Barnard's ha'
Would neither chap nor ca',
But set his bent bow to his breast,
And lichtly lap the wa'.

He would nae man his errand tell,
Though twa stood at the gate,
But straight into the ha' he came,
Where great folks sat at meat.

“Hail! hail! my gentle sire and dame,
My message winna wait,
Dame, ye maun to the green wood gang,
Before that it be late.

“Ye're bidden take this gay mantle,
It's a' gowd but the hem,
Ye maun go to the good green wood,
E'en by yourself alane.

“There it is, a silken sark,
Your ain hand sewed the sleeve,
You maun come speak to Gil Morrice,
Speir nae bauld Baron's leave.”

The lady stampèd wi' her foot,
And winkèd wi' her e'e,
But all that she could do or say,
Forbidden he wouldna be.

“It's surely to my bower-woman,
It ne'er could be to me;”
“I brought it to Lord Barnard's Lady,
I trow that ye be she.”

Then up and spake the wily nurse.
(The bairn upon her knee),
“If it be come frae Gil Morrice,
'Tis dear welcome to me.”

“Ye lee, ye lee, ye filthy nurse,
Sae loud's I hear ye lee;
I brought it to Lord Barnard's Lady,
I trow ye be nae she.”

Then up and spake the bauld Baron,
An angry man was he;
He's ta'en the table wi' his foot,
In flinders gart it flee.

“Gae bring a robe of yon cleiding,
That hangs upon the pin,
And I'll gae to the good green wood,
And speak with your leman.”

“O bide at hame now, Lord Barnard,
I warn you, bide at hame;
Ne'er wyte a man wi' violence
That ne'er wyte ye wi' nane.”

Gil Morrice sat in yon green wood,
He whistled and he sang;
“Oh, what means a' thae folk coming?
My mother tarries lang.”

The Baron cam' to the greenwood,
Wi' muckle dule and care,
And there he spied brave Gil Morrice
Kaiming his yellow hair.

His hair was like the threads o' gold
Drawn frae Minerva's loom;
His lips like roses drapping dew,
His breath a sweet perfume.

His brow was like the mountain snaw
Gilt by the morning beam;
His cheeks like living roses glowed,
His een like azure stream.

The boy was clad in robes o' green,
Sweet as the infant spring;
And like the mavis on the bush,
He gar't the valleys ring.

“Nae wonder, nae wonder, Gil Morrice,
My lady lo'ed thee weel,
The fairest part of my body
Is blacker than thy heel.

“Yet ne'ertheless, now, Gil Morrice.
For a' thy great beautie,
Ye'se rue the day that ye was born,
Thy head sall gae with me.”

Now he has drawn his trusty brand,
And slait it on the strae,
And through Gil Morrice' fair body
He's gar'd cauld iron gae.

And he has ta'en Gil Morrice' head,
And set it on a spear;
The meanest man in a' his train
Has got the head to bear.

And he has ta'en Gil Morrice up,
Laid him across his steed,
And brought him to his painted bower,
And laid him on a bed.

The lady sat on the castle wa',
Beheld baith dale and down,
And there she saw Gil Morrice' head
Come trailing to the town.

“Far mair I lo'e that bloody head,
But and that yellow hair,
Than Lord Barnard and a' his lands,
As they lie here and there.”

And she has ta'en Gil Morrice' head,
And kissed baith mouth and chin;
“I ance was fu' of Gil Morrice,
As hip is o' the stane.

“I got thee in my father's house
Wi' muckle grief and shame,
And brought thee up in good green wood,
Under the heavy rain.

“Oft have I by thy cradle sat,
And seen thee soundly sleep,
But now I'll go about thy grave,
The saut, saut tears to weep.”

And syne she kissed his bloody cheek,
And syne his bloody chin;
“Better I lo'e my Gil Morrice,
Than a' my kith and kin.”

“Away, away ye ill woman,
An ill death may you dee,
Gin I had kenn'd he'd been your son,
He'd ne'er been slain by me.”

“Upraid me not, Lord Barnard,
Upraid me not for shame,
Wi' that same spear, oh pierce my heart,
And put me out of pain.

“Since nothing but Gil Morrice' head
Thy jealous rage could quell,
Let that same hand now take her life,
That ne'er to thee did ill.

“To me nae after days nor nights
Will e'er be saft or kind;
I'll fill the air with heavy sighs,
And greet till I am blind.”

“Enough of blood by me's been spilt,
Seek not your death from me;
I rather it had been mysel',
Than either him or thee.

“With heart so wae I hear your plaint,
Sair, sair I rue the deed,
That e'er this cursèd hand o' mine
Did gar his body bleed.

“Dry up your tears, my winsome dame,
Ye ne'er can heal the wound,
You see his head upon my spear,
His heart's blood on the ground.

“I curse the hand that did the deed,
The heart that thought the ill,
The feet that bore me with such speed
The comely youth to kill.

“I'll aye lament for Gil Morrice
As gin he were my ain;
I'll ne'er forget the dreary day
On which the youth was slain.”